


keep it sweet in your memory

by kanetcews (lavenderharry)



Category: Men's Hockey RPF
Genre: Blow Jobs, Breathplay, Face-Fucking, Fluff and Smut, Light Dom/sub, M/M, Marriage Proposal, Rimming, So much emotion, Spit As Lube, also petnames because there is still not enough fic of them calling each other baby, patrick is obsessed with jonny being his husband, this is just honeymoon sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-29
Updated: 2020-03-29
Packaged: 2021-02-28 16:48:43
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,054
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23370460
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lavenderharry/pseuds/kanetcews
Summary: Patrick had seen his too-dark, too-big eyes, the tight furl of his mouth and instantly thoughtmine, before shaking himself out of the split-second fantasy that’d flashed through his mind, of a white picket fence and 2.5 kids. They were kids themselves after all, still so much of the world left to conquer and maketheirs.
Relationships: Patrick Kane/Jonathan Toews
Comments: 13
Kudos: 117





	keep it sweet in your memory

**Author's Note:**

> for sophie ❤️
> 
> thank you to becks for giving this a quick beta x

They don’t tell you how easy it is to fall in love, to give every part of yourself over to a sport, a city, a way of life. It’s the easiest thing in the world to let your heart soar on the screams of thousands, the never-ending sound of Chelsea Dagger filling every crevice of your cracked soul, healing. To have that love and warmth and emotion wrapped up in one person—one _man—_ is more than Patrick ever thought he wanted, more than he ever thought he deserved. It sits there, a ball of fire burning beneath his ribs, flowing through his veins, crackling through his very soul. It’s the way he felt the first time he met Jonny properly when they were rookies, fresh meat in Chicago, the city where hockey came to die. Patrick had seen his too-dark, too-big eyes, the tight furl of his mouth and instantly thought _mine_ , before shaking himself out of the split-second fantasy that’d flashed through his mind, of a white picket fence and 2.5 kids. They were kids themselves after all, still so much of the world left to conquer and make _theirs_. 

If someone had told him then that Jonny would mean more to him than anyone else in the world, that Patrick would crave his opinion, his touch, his _love_ , Patrick would’ve laughed himself sick at them. Back then, Jonny had a new girl draped over his arm every other week—all blue-eyed and blonde-haired, Patrick noticed, but _girls_ nonetheless.

__________

It’d taken them far too long to get their shit sorted out, to move Patrick’s stuff into Jonny’s condo and fall asleep in the same bed every night—to stop sleeping with other people. They’d fallen into bed together a lot earlier—just before the first cup—frantic kisses in hotel rooms and secret handjobs when they should’ve been napping, but everything else came later—the feeling in Patrick’s chest every time Jonny smiled at him and the way he missed him with every fibre of his being in the offseason. There’d been a few stumbles, harsh words and phones thrown but it’d been alright at the end. Patrick was in Jonny’s bed at the end of the day and that was what mattered.

The second cup they won as _them_ , and Patrick honestly thought he’d never feel more alive. He felt like he could conquer the world with Jonny at his side, silver in his hands, and the city of Boston lying in ruins at his feet. That year, he’d gone back to Winnipeg with Jonny for the first time—spent a week chirping David and complimenting Andree’s cooking and talking hockey with Bryan. Winnipeg and Jonny had settled into his bones then, filled the crevices he didn’t know existed and carved themselves a place in the part of his brain where family normally sat. Patrick had let himself feel the warmth of love and acceptance and something _right_.

The third cup felt like coming home after a long road trip, like sinking into your own bed after weeks of stiff mattresses and the strange clinical smell that hung around every hotel room. It was intimately familiar and completely foreign at the same time. He’d felt his chest expand as he looked around at the bright happy faces of his teammates in Hawks red—the fans in Hawks red—and resettle into something resembling _Chicago_ , something that felt like home. Lifting those 34 pounds felt triumphant and entirely consuming, the burst of bright colour he could see in his peripheral vision and Jonny, always Jonny. Winning was a high that could never be beaten, regardless of where he won or who he won with, but it’d meant more to win it in his city, with _his_ guy. Patrick’d _felt_ it more.

He wished, sometimes, that he could’ve bottled up that feeling and kept it with him through the season afterwards—through Jonny shouting at him over the phone, voice tinny and faint when the signal dropped, and the constant, _constant_ media hounding. They’d almost hit their breaking point that year, terse phone calls with management and PR and both of their lawyers every other week, and the wall that had gone up between Patrick and his family. He’d spiralled a little, fallen into the bottom of a bottle one too many times and almost driven Jonny away with his incessant, overwhelming self-hatred. He’d walked away from that summer bruised and far too defensive, with the urge to prove himself singing through his veins. Patrick had done it too, left the entire team in the dust in a desperate bid to glimpse recognition again. It hadn’t felt like what he’d thought it would and it made him first think that maybe hockey wasn’t the most important thing.

The most important thing was— _is_ —Jonny. Would always _be_ Jonny. 

Jonny who’d stayed through everything, trusted him wholly, completely. Jonny who’d slipped into the other side of the bed every night, warm and constant, a touchstone in the PR mess his life had become. He’d been there when Patrick’s family eventually started talking to him again, texts and phone calls pouring in as they came to their senses, making Patrick tear up and sob into Jonny’s shoulder. He’d held Patrick close that night, pressed kisses into his sweat damp hair as Patrick cried in relief, letting out the frustration of the last few months—of having his greatest fear realised. 

Jonny hadn’t always been there though—wasn’t there for Patrick getting drunk when he was sixteen and kissing a guy for the first time, wasn’t there for his freak out about that, wasn’t there in London when he felt like his heart was being torn in two after Ryan left. But he’d been there for everything important since, which was what mattered. People had their families, their parents, their siblings as rocks, pillars of support. Patrick had Jonny. And Jonny had Patrick.

__________

They celebrate Jonny’s 39th quietly, just the two of them on the day and a dinner with the core the night after. It feels right, after the way the season had ended, playoff hopes fizzling away under the burden of too many injuries and not enough time. Patrick holds Jonny close that night, can feel his gaze being caught again and again on the skin of Jonny’s left ring finger—carrying a hint of the tan he always had no matter the season, and bare—an emptiness Patrick could sense on his own.

He goes back to Buffalo that summer without Jonny, saying he has something to do—something he has to do on his own. Jonny has a frown on his face and the beginning of an unspoken question on his lips but he lets him go, even going so far as to drive Patrick to the airport himself. His family is surprised to see him so early into the offseason—normally him and Jonny head to Winnipeg straight away and then to Buffalo for the Fourth. They’re even more surprised to see Patrick alone and he sees a flash of worry flit across his mom’s face before she schools her expression and smiles at him, grin wide just like always. She doesn’t need to be worried though, Patrick hasn’t come bearing bad news. He gets an emphatic pat on the back from his dad, tears from his mum and identical screams of happiness from his sisters when he tells them what he’s thinking about doing—what he’s _going_ to do.

He goes to Winnipeg afterwards, ring box pressed between two of Jonny’s shirts in his luggage. Andrée is confused at first, seeing him alone on the doorstep, suitcase behind him and carry-on in hand, but she pulls him into the house and shouts for Bryan, telling him that “Patrick’s here, honey! _Without_ Jonathan.” Patrick thinks she might know what he’s here for by the tone of her voice but she doesn’t say anything, just smiles at him, eyes twinkling like Jonny’s do when he’s really happy. 

The house is warm and still at the late hour and it takes him about thirty minutes after they’ve fed him and fussed over him, to work up the courage to ask. He knows he doesn’t need to and Jonny will probably kill him if he ever finds out, but he _wants_ to—wants to tell them first, these people who are like family to him, who’ve made themselves a home in Patrick’s chest with the way they treat him, invite him into their lives, _love_ him like a son. How can he _not_ ask?

Andrée tears up immediately, hand going to her mouth as she gasps, both out of emotion and a little shock. Bryan just smiles, breathing out a soft laugh and shaking his head as though Patrick is telling a joke. He feels a little offended for a second but it dawns on him quickly that this is their way of approving, of saying _yes_. He’s never felt so relieved in his life, shoulders dropping and heart soaring as a grin cracks across his face. He’s just travelled from Buffalo to Winnipeg on a red-eye and is getting on another plane to Chicago—to Jonny—the next day and he feels like he could conquer the world sitting on the Toews’ beat up couch. 

They pull him into hugs and kisses, demanding to see the ring and then send him on his way, Jonny’s childhood bedroom all made up for him. It takes him forever to fall asleep, heart hammering in his chest and throat a little tight as he looks around at the posters and trophies Jonny had won as a kid. He almost texts him a photo of the Sakic poster that’s still up on the wall but holds himself back, not wanting Jonny to ask questions and make Patrick give himself away far too early. He must fall asleep at some point though, because he wakes up to Andrée softly knocking on the door and asking what he wants for breakfast and if he needs a ride to the airport. Patrick leaves Winnipeg with his stomach and his heart full, but most importantly, he leaves with his family’s blessing.

__________

He gets back to Chicago and doesn’t ask. And doesn’t ask. And doesn’t ask. 

He keeps not asking into training camp, and preseason, and the beginning of the regular season. The thing is, he doesn’t know _how_ to, just knows that he wants to. Wants to see the look on Jonny’s face when the words finally leave his mouth. Wants to kiss Jonny and _know_ that he’s going to _marry_ this man, that Jonny’s said yes, that Jonny wants it too.

It happens when Patrick’s not even expecting it himself. They’ve just gotten back from dinner with their rookies, who aren’t really rookies anymore—Dom, Dylan and Alex with kids of their own, Kirby and Adam engaged. Sometimes, it feels like him and Jonny are the last ones left to start that part of their lives, to let something— _them—_ mean more than hockey, more than winning, more than this sport that raised them, that they’ve known their entire lives. Sometimes it feels like so much of his love for hockey is wrapped up in Jonny, wrapped up in Hawks red and the legacy they’re going to leave behind. They’ve sacrificed a lot to be where they are, to be _together_ where they are.

It’s late and quiet and Patrick’s tucked into Jonny’s body, head resting on his chest and listening to the steady beat of Jonny’s heart as it threatens to lull him to sleep. Jonny’s hand is running through his hair softly, fingers tugging at the strands a little. Patrick looks out across at the lights shining beneath them, slightly unfocused behind their frosted windows and he knows he has to say it. The words have been sitting at the back of his throat for months, only just crawling to the tip of his tongue. He’s almost blurted it out so many times—watching Jonny lace his skates before practice, at the breakfast table, when they’re brushing their teeth together before bed. He has to.

Patrick shifts a little in Jonny’s hold, making him grip his arms tighter and let out a soft hum. Patrick sighs softly and turns his head so he’s looking up at him. Jonny looks down at him like a reflex, soft brown eyes locking on Patrick’s own and face breaking into a slow, sleepy smile.

“‘Sup, babe?” His voice is heavy with sleep, words a little slurred and—Patrick loves him. He loves him so fucking much. 

There’s a moment of silence that feels like the final puzzle piece slotting into place, perfect and important. Patrick opens his mouth and the words slide out, honey-thick and sleep-warm. 

“Marry me, baby.” 

It’s not a question—was never a question. He’d known when he bought the ring, when he’d stolen Jonny’s black one to get it sized. He’d known the first time they kissed, the first time they fucked, the first time they made love. He’d known watching Jonny dominate in the shootout when they were seventeen, on the edge of something glorious. He’d known when he was twelve, curly haired, pimple faced and so so jealous of the way Jonny cut across the ice like it was as easy as breathing.

He knows _now_ , when Jonny slides on top of him, kisses him softly, pressing him into the mattress with his weight. Patrick hums and he can feel his lips curving into a smile. Jonny pulls back so their lips are still touching the barest amount, and breathes the word “Yes” into Patrick’s mouth. Patrick closes his eyes and sinks into the feeling of home, safety, and strongest of all, _love_.

__________

They go to Paris for their honeymoon. Get chirped like _hell_ for it but you only get the one honeymoon, might as well go to the most romantic spot on Earth. Jonny’d booked everything himself, citing that he’d been before so he would have the best idea of where to go. Patrick had let him indulge himself—it kept him away from the actual wedding planning that Patrick and his sisters were doing.

That’s how they’ve ended up in Paris’ finest restaurant, tables around them empty and Patrick a little drunk on too many glasses of the best champagne France has to offer. Jonny has gone all out. There’d been fourteen courses, each of them devastatingly delicious in their own way and Patrick has never felt so pampered in his life. He feels like he’s been on the verge of tears all night, so in awe of everything Jonny’s done for them and so so in love. His heart leaps into his throat every time he catches sight of the gold ring on Jonny’s finger—of his own ring, even—body filling with warmth as he thinks married and husband and _mine_.

They’d gotten the rings inscribed, something that they both wanted, the press of their numbers etched against the inside of the metal—1988, always together. Patrick catches another glimpse of it as Jonny lifts his wine glass to take a sip and—he wants this dinner to be over. Now. Jonny must see the look in his eyes though, because he gestures to their waiter, who quickly wraps up their meal perfectly politely and sends them on their way. 

There’s a taxi waiting outside the restaurant when they exit and Patrick takes a moment to think about how much effort Jonny put into this—into their honeymoon. God, Patrick loves him. He doesn’t know if he can keep his hands off Jonny until they get to their hotel.

When they do finally get there though, hair ruffled and mouths a little swollen, they tip their driver three times as much for putting up with them—well, putting up with Patrick mostly.

__________

He pushes Jonny against their hotel room door and it slams closed underneath their combined weight. His hands are frantically grasping at Jonny’s shirt, fingers working through the buttons as quick as he can. Jonny’s moaning above him as Patrick bites at his neck a little, tongue slipping out to lick lightly at the sweat gathered there. He wants to feel Jonny in his mouth, the heavy weight of him against his tongue and the press of him at the back of his throat, just that little bit too much. His mouth waters a little at the thought of Jonny feeding his cock between his lips and just _taking._

Patrick drops to his knees a tad bit too fast, the movement slightly jarring, and hears the thud of Jonny dropping his head back against the door, a soft “Fuck, baby,” leaving his mouth, words no louder than a whisper. His hand drops into Patrick’s hair as Patrick palms at Jonny’s bulge and undoes his pants. There isn’t time to take everything off; Patrick’s near drooling already.

He pulls Jonny’s cock out of his boxer briefs and traces the head of it around his lips, tongue flicking out to dip into the slit, tasting the wetness there. He hears Jonny curse and feels him tighten his fingers in Patrick’s hair, the width of his palm encasing the crown of his head perfectly. He pushes a little and Patrick lets him, lets him feed the head of his cock in first, the rest of his length following steadily, the sharp hint of pain at the corners of his mouth—where his lips are stretched _just_ that bit too far—almost piercing in the soft haze of husband and Jonny and honeymoon. 

Patrick swallows around Jonny’s thick cock as he bumps against the back of his throat, forcing down his gag reflex, making this good for Jonny, for his _husband_. He feels Jonny grip his head and pull him half off his cock and then shove his head forward, lips nearly meeting Jonny’s pelvis, choking on the length of his cock. He does it again and again, breathing out curses and variations of Patrick’s name and endearments alike. Patrick’s hands have been firmly gripped on Jonny’s hips but he moves them, one going up to press against Jonny’s abs—to feel them contract with the force of Jonny holding himself back—and the other desperately finding his left hand, thumbing at the ring on his finger. 

Patrick gets lost in it—the feeling of Jonny jerking his head back and forth on his cock, the stretch of his lips and the tears leaking out of his eyes. He’s never felt better or messier. His chin is dripping with spit, running down his neck into the open v of his dress shirt. He’s still gripping Jonny’s hand and bracing himself against his stomach so he feels it when Jonny gets close. His stomach jumps and he pushes Patrick's head further than he’s gone yet, choking him properly on it. Jonny’s mouth is running, filth spilling from his lips and Patrick wants him to come—wants to taste it in his mouth and feel it run down his neck, messing him up.

“Pat, baby—fuck, so good, always so good for me—taking me so deep, choking on it—fuck,” Jonny gasps out, thrusting his hips slightly. His cock slips in just that little bit deeper and Jonny comes with a loud groan, his fingers clutching at Patrick’s head tight, keeping it in place to make sure he swallows. He can feel a little bit slip out the corner of his mouth though, the slow, hot slide of it running down his chin and mixing with the wetness already there. 

Jonny pulls his dick out and moves his hand to cup Patrick’s cheek, thumb pressing into his tender bottom lip. Patrick can only imagine how his mouth looks—wet with come and spit, lips puffy and red, swollen from the friction of Jonny’s cock. Jonny’s eyes are dark, heady with want, and he looks like he wants to ruin Patrick, take him apart completely. He drags Patrick up by the grip on his jaw and shoves him softly towards the bed, hand coming down to lightly swat at his ass. Patrick lets out a soft laugh before Jonny is on him, pressing him face first into the bed with his whole body weight, all 200 pounds of him. He grinds his half-hard cock into Patrick’s ass before sitting back on his heels, one knee on either side of his hips. 

He feels Jonny pull his clothes off slowly, kissing every part of him that he uncovers. Jonny’s hands are gentle against his skin, touch reverent and loving, as he pulls Patrick into the position he wants him in. When he’s done, he just _looks_ for a long minute, staring as Patrick’s hips stutter into empty air at the feeling of being watched by his husband. His face is flushed and embarrassment is running through him, but he wants to be good for Jonny—wants their honeymoon to be perfect.

__________

It takes him a moment to realise what Jonny’s about to do. Patrick’s hands are locked around his own wrists, resting where his spine curves into his ass. He knows the picture he makes, why Jonny just _looked_ for so long—face pushed into the mattress, pink lips open _just_ wide enough and the curve of his ass jutting out into empty air. Or in this case, into the soft press of Jonny’s palm kneading the expanse of one cheek. 

It takes him more than a moment actually. He’s expecting the sharp pain of Jonny’s hand, waiting for it almost. Instead, Jonny hooks a thumb into the cleft of his ass and pulls him open a little, before leaning down and licking a long wet stripe from his perineum to the top of his cleft. 

“Fuuuck,” Patrick groans, feeling his knees buckle a little.

“Stay,” Jonny grits out, voice sounding muffled.

Patrick pushes his face a little harder into the mattress, hands slipping from their position a little, and braces himself. He feels the heavy, wet slide of Jonny’s tongue across his hole again before he pulls him wider and runs it along the rim instead. Jonny licks in with small, short laps directly on his hole, teasing Patrick a little. They almost never do this and the thought of it happening now, after everything, is enough to make him flush, humiliation fighting with the need to push back into Jonny’s mouth and _beg_.

He whines Jonny’s name in a blatant plea and mouths at the sheets desperately, curses sitting on the tip of his tongue if Jonny doesn’t keep going. Jonny does though, thumbs up right next to Patrick’s hole, spreading him wider, and strokes his tongue, soft and wet, across it. His tongue circles his rim once and then Jonny sets up a constant rhythm—just enough to ruin Patrick slowly. Patrick’s cock is hanging between his legs, hard as a rock but he doesn’t reach for it. He’s going to give this to Jonny—going to come untouched for only the second time in his life.

Jonny stops licking into his hole, letting up only to blow lightly across it. His breath feels cold as it hits his sloppy hole and Patrick can feel himself clenching around nothing. _God_ , he’s got to be gaping—and he hasn’t even taken Jonny’s cock yet. Patrick hears Jonny take a shuddering breath before he groans.

“Fuck, baby, your hole—it’s like—quivering,” his voice sounds a little awed, like he can’t quite believe what he’s seeing. The words are filthy and intimate and Patrick can feel his flush darken, feels it travel down to his chest, embarrassment burning in his stomach.

“Shut up, just—,” he trails off with a shuddering gasp as Jonny slips one finger inside him and then ducks back in with his mouth, licking around his finger, making him sloppier. He presses into Patrick’s hole with his tongue and then slips a second finger in, thrusting them in and out slowly. Patrick feels like his breath is caught in his throat, words stolen from his mouth by the feeling of Jonny’s fingers brushing against his prostate. He can feel Jonny’s spit running down the back of his balls, cooling as it goes. He’s got to be so messy, sloppy wet and dripping because of Jonny’s tongue.

Jonny moves his mouth away and lets go of the cheek he was gripping. He’s thrusting in slowly with his fingers, scissoring them to open Patrick up, make him just right to take Jonny’s cock. Patrick’s knees buckle again and Jonny tuts quietly behind him.

“Baby, stay still,” he mutters, before gripping Patrick’s wrists together at the small of his back with one hand, fingers tight and unyielding—the cool metal of his ring just the kind of grounding that Patrick needs. He can feel a wet patch beneath his cheek where he’d sucked on the sheets in an effort to keep quiet. And, and—he wants to come with Jonny _inside_ him, not like this.

“Fuck me, Jonny, baby please,” Patrick gasps out, voice slightly muffled where his face is pressed into the bed.

Thankfully, Jonny listens. He tucks three fingers in to make sure he’s open enough before flipping him over and sliding into Patrick’s spit-slick hole in one long stroke, making Patrick’s eyes roll into the back of his head. His hands desperately fist the sheets as Jonny thrusts in and out with measured movements that hit Patrick’s prostate dead on. Patrick knows he can’t take much more of his. He can’t hold in his moans and gasps anymore, everything out in the open, laid bare for Jonny to see.

Jonny’s hand is splayed across his sternum, wide fingers pressing down a little as he braces himself while grinding against Patrick’s prostate with every thrust inside, sending white-hot sparks up Patrick’s spine. He feels like he’s going to come any second, dick lying untouched between them, orgasm building with every stroke inside, his hole clenching around Jonny’s thick cock.

Patrick’s trying but he just can’t get there, turning his head from side to side as Jonny fucks him sloppy, reaching for his dick with the hand that was gripping Patrick’s hip tight. Patrick lets out a loud noise of protest, frustrated beyond words, and Jonny locks eyes with him. He knows how fucked out he looks, lips spit-slick and cherry red from where he’s been biting at them, and eyes wet with unshed tears. He doesn’t want Jonny to touch his dick, he needs, he needs—

“Baby, you want to come? I can make you come,” Jonny breathes out, voice rough and heavy with intent as he moves the hand on Patrick’s chest up to wrap his fingers around Patrick’s throat. And— _fuck_ , Patrick loves him so much. He lets out a loud moan and then Jonny’s thumb and middle finger are pressing in, cutting off Patrick’s breathing momentarily as he continues thrusting in and out of Patrick’s hole, the head of his dick catching on Patrick’s rim on every upstroke. 

Patrick doesn’t know how long it’s been, losing himself in the solid weight of Jonny and the perfect pressure of his thick fingers closing around his throat. Jonny’s speaking, filthy words dripping from his mouth like he can’t help it, but Patrick’s not listening. All he can hear is the blood rushing through his ears and the soft thud of Jonny’s hips against his ass. The world feels like it’s been narrowed down to the feeling of Jonny’s hand around his throat and the unrelenting pressure against his prostate, lighting him up from the inside. He feels so _full_ —full of the wedding and the honeymoon and Jonny and his perfect cock and just _them_. 

__________

Jonny relaxes his hand; Patrick takes a breath and _comes_ , eyes rolling into the back of his head and mouth dropping open on a silent gasp of fresh air. He comes like he’s never come before, an explosion almost, and _sobs_ when Jonny strokes back in. Some of it lands in his open mouth and he instinctively swallows, mouth turning salty-sweet. He’d felt it build up a little, almost like waves cresting with every thrust in and the intermittent tightening of Jonny’s fingers. 

It takes Patrick more than a minute to come back to himself. Jonny’s still inside and it’s almost too much for a second, pain edging out pleasure, but Jonny slows down, lets it shift back into something good, melting and far too hot. 

“Baby, I can’t—you feel so good—tight and perfect for my cock,” Jonny’s voice is thready, breath hitching as he thrusts in, chasing his own orgasm and—Patrick has to know. He reaches down to touch where Jonny’s big cock is disappearing inside him, feeling the rim of his hot, sensitive hole. He feels, more than hears Jonny let out a loud groan and watches him bite his lip as Patrick lightly traces his spit-slick hole, fingers catching on Jonny’s dick. “Too much, Pat—don’t.”

Patrick moves his hand away from his hole at that, the strain in Jonny’s voice almost palpable, and reaches for his hand instead—the left one. He’s hit with an overwhelming feeling of love and just, _happiness_ , when he sees the ring, the way he’s felt all night. Jonny’s his _husband_. He says as much out loud and watches Jonny fall apart, gasping out his name. He strokes in twice and collapses on top of Patrick, warm come filling Patrick up the way he likes, messy and a little too much. 

__________

Afterwards—when they’ve cleaned up and touched underneath the warm spray of the shower, too spent for another round—Jonny kisses his eyelids, his nose, both his cheeks and finally touches their mouths together, lips meeting with both of them smiling, teeth clashing a little. Patrick thumbs at Jonny’s ring as they go to bed and Jonny smiles softly at him, eyes honey-warm and so full of love.

Patrick falls asleep to the lights of Paris streaming in through the open curtains, bathing them in the soft glow of the city of love and the sound of his husband’s heartbeat in his ears, steady and strong.

**Author's Note:**

> come cry with me about these marrieds on twitter/tumblr | @kanetcews


End file.
